


The Greatest Discovery

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Babies, Dean holds sam for the first time and it's cute, Gen, Pre-show, Weechesters, also john isn't a huge jerk and actually loves his kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S-A-M. It's a good name for a baby. A good name for a brand new brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Discovery

Dean heard the car in the drive before he saw it. The sound of the Impala’s roaring engine was familiar, as familiar as Mama’s PB&J sandwiches and the angel statue above his bed and the patched quilt he slept with. The Impala was familiar, because the Impala meant Daddy.

Daddy was home.

He raced to the window, his little feet padding against the hardwood floors. It had been two whole days since Mama and Daddy left home, leaving Dean with Ms. Chancy and a lot of “The Young and the Restless.” She followed him to the window now, smiling as he climbed up the sofa, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and pulling himself up to the sill.

The little four-year-old lifted the blinds with his tiny fingers, peering out onto the front lawn. The grass was in disarray – John hadn’t mowed in at least three weeks, and that was unusual. One of Dean’s favorite activities was to ride along on Daddy’s shoulders while he cut the grass, weaving back and forth in a steady, predictable pattern, the motor grumbling mrzzz mrzzz mrzzz. But the yard was messy and overgrown now; Daddy had been preoccupied.

Dean’s face lit up when he saw his father emerge from the Impala, toting a bag that looked much too large to belong to a man. It was bright blue and paisley-patterned, with a stuffed moose squeezed into one pocket. John hoisted this bag over his shoulder, and walked around to the other side of the car.

“Mama!” Dean cried, and there she was, climbing out of the passenger seat. She looked exhausted yet radiant, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. She was holding something too – some sort of bag, but even larger than Daddy’s, and this one was open at the top. It had a large plastic handle, and Mary held it protectively to her chest, as if the key to salvation was in her hands.

“Mama! I’m here!” He yelled from the window, but Mary couldn’t hear him. She was smiling down at her oversized bag, following her husband through the doorway into the house. Dean turned away, desperate to get to his parents, and Ms. Chancy lifted him from the windowsill.

“Come along, rascal,” she said, as she set him down on the carpet. “Your parents have something to show you.”

He giggled, hearing his father’s whistle from the stairwell. He ran as fast as his young legs could take him, sprinting towards the bannister. Daddy was waiting for him there, his arms outstretched, his grin huge.

“How’s my favorite troublemaker?” he exclaimed, as Dean hurtled into his arms. He smelled of Old Spice and sweat and something else, something sharp and sterile. Underneath his denim jacket, he was wearing the same shirt he’d worn two days ago, a Black Sabbath concert tee from 1978. It was wrinkled and stained with mustard in one corner; Mary must have been busy for her not to fuss over it. 

Dean searched his father’s face, his greatest idol, his eternal hero. The effects of middle age had not yet turned John Winchester grey. He still looked like a scrappy young mechanic with dreams and ambitions, dark brown stubble making his chin scratchy against Dean’s cheek. The only sign of age were the crow’s feet at his eyes, but they only showed when he smiled. John looked happy, happier today maybe than ever. 

Dean recognized this immediately and replied, “I was good today. I didn’t bring mud inside.” He nodded expectantly, hoping for praise. 

“That’s my boy,” John replied. “And t-ball?”

“I practiced,” Dean said. “Coach says my swing is real good.”

“Sure it is. You’re a Winchester, all of us are pro-athletes,” John said. Drawing close to his son’s ear, he whispered, “Don’t tell your mother, but I used to be the best baseball player in the whole world. Then I got old and fat.”

“You’re not fat,” Dean giggled, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. John hugged him back, pressing his lips into his hair. 

“Y’wanna see a surprise?” he whispered, leaning back and looking at Dean.

The four-year-old cocked his head, his brow furrowed. Surprises were usually a good thing - new toys or treats or, once, a new t-ball bat. Sometimes Mama had surprises, but they were usually pies in the oven or a new painting for the upstairs guestroom. Surprises were good. But John looked almost sick with his own giddy excitement. This was a different surprise altogether. 

“What kind of--” 

Suddenly, a noise came from the Dean’s old nursery - the one he’d lived in up until a few months ago. It was a strange, almost strangled sound he was sure he’d never heard before; almost a laugh, not quite a cry, different from a cough. He was immediately curious, and turned to his father for answers. 

“Toldja I had a surprise, kiddo,” John said, beaming. 

Dean wrestled against his father’s clutch, wanting his feet on the ground. There was something foreign in the house, and he was both afraid and fascinated because of it. He heard his mother’s footsteps in the other room, heard her voice as she hummed one of her favorite songs - “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles - and knew she must be alright. She must be safe.

But still. Something was different.

When John finally set him down, Dean ran down the hallway, following the sound of her voice. All of a sudden, there was nothing more important than reaching her, than seeing what she was doing and why Daddy seemed so excited. His socks slipped on the floor beneath him, making him slide as he turned the hallway corner. But there she was, there she was, in the room just ahead - Mary Winchester, 29 years old and glowing, only a few feet away.

She was standing in Dean’s old nursery - except, it wasn’t Dean’s old nursery, not really. It looked different now. The old yellow curtains had been swapped with white ones; these decorated with baseball bats and mitts, tiny pitchers winding their arms and tossing balls frozen in time. The walls were a light grey now, not the dark navy Dean had grown accustomed to, and the picture of a tractor on the wall was replaced with the sketch of a car: a Ford Model T. 

Still, none of these things caught Dean’s attention. What worried the four-year-old were the letters on the wall, painted in a bright, piercing blue:

S-A-M.

What on earth was a “Sam”?

Mary turned to look at her son, still standing dumbstruck in the hallway, as if the floor beneath him had turned to cement and his feet were stuck. She saw his wide-eyed gaze, his frown at the “SAM” on the wall, and laughed. “Dean, sweetheart, what’s the matter?”

“It’s different,” was all the little boy said.

She followed his gaze, and smiled at the letters she’d painted only a few days before. “Yes, it is different. Do you like it?” she asked.

Dean seemed to think about this for a moment, then shrugged, nodding. “Mmhmm. ‘S alright.”

“Good. It’s going to be around for a long time.” Mary reached out her hand and beckoned for him to come into the room. “Come here, honey. Mama and Daddy have something to show you.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes, a surprise.”

“A good one?”

“Yes,” she replied, and lifted her child off the ground. He wrapped his legs above her hip, instantly comfortable in the crook of her arm. John entered the room behind her, his hand at her waist, gentle and protective. 

“You ready?” Mary asked, watching Dean’s expression. He nodded vigorously, and she whispered excitedly, “Close your eyes.”

He did as he was told. His eyes fluttered closed and the world was suddenly dark, the nursery whisked away and replaced with black. He could only hear his mother breathing beside him, as the seconds seemed to pass in hours. He could feel his heart beat in his chest, wild with curiosity. Something big was happening, something bigger than he could imagine. 

“Okay, Dean,” Mary Winchester said. “Open your eyes.”

He did, and it was a funny, because nothing really changed. There was no present waiting in his hands. There was no new bike, no t-ball bat or pair of sneakers. The temperature in the room was exactly the same, it still smelled like milk and powder, and the letters were still painted on the wall. S-A-M.

But there was something else. Something Dean hadn’t noticed before. 

He glanced down at this thing, and realized he didn’t know what it was. He didn’t have a name for it. It was a thing, yes, but he didn’t know what kind of thing. It was soft and round and bright pink, curled into a blanket like a nesting doll. It had big eyes and awkward, misshapen ears, a measly patch of brown hair decorating its head. It was making odd noises, half-laugh and half-choke; but they were happy noises, of this Dean was sure. The thing was happy. 

Dean didn’t know what it was, but he liked it. He decided that immediately - he liked the thing very much. 

The boy cocked his head to one side, staring intently at this new discovery. He reached down to touch it, and almost jumped when the thing grabbed his hand. The thing laughed and held on tight, crushing Dean’s tiny finger in its tinier grip. 

“What is it?” Dean asked, turning to look at his mother and father. They both smiled back at him, their faces proud and filled with love. It was one of those rare moments exchanged between parents and child, where everything, for a moment, is perfect.

“Dean, this is what we’ve been talking about for the last few months. This is your new friend,” John said, lifting the thing from its cradle. It gurgled and grabbed at John’s chin, giggling when the young man winced. 

“It’s a baby,” Mary explained, carrying Dean closer. “He’s our new baby. He’s very fragile, like a new toy. You can’t play with him too hard.”

The baby cried out at this comment, as if objecting to an accusation. Then its eyes laid upon Dean and it stopped, momentarily still.

“Is it a boy?” Dean asked. “Like me?”

“Yes,” Mary answered. “And when he’s a little bit older, you two can play cars together and race each other around the yard. You’ll have so much fun.”

“What’s his name?”

John and Mary exchanged a glance, before John said, “Dean, this is Sam. This is your brand new brother.”

“Sam,” Dean said the name slowly, testing it out. “Did you buy him at the store?”

His parents laughed in unison, like this was the funniest thing they’d heard since last night’s Saturday Night Live sketch. “No, sweetie,” Mary said. “We got him at the hospital. We got him just for you. We thought you might like somebody to play with.”

Dean frowned. “Does he like t-ball?”

“He will someday, son,” John replied. “I’m sure he will.”

“Okay.” Dean smiled, turning back to look at the baby - at Sam. He was still resting in John’s arms, but now he appeared to be asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling. All that odd noise-making must have tired him out, Dean thought. 

“Would you like to hold him?” Mary asked, setting Dean down. He nodded, and before he knew what to say next, the baby was only inches away from him. It was bigger than he’d expected; a big baby, with big eyes and big ears and a big blue blanket keeping it warm. Sam, that was the baby’s name, and it was a good name. Dean thought he’d never heard of a better name for a new baby. Any other name would have been wrong. Sam was a good name, a great one. 

Dean sat with his legs criss-cross applesauce on the hardwood floor, the baby resting in his lap. The name echoed in his head again and again, and all he could think was, Sam is a good name. A good name for a brother. Mary and John sat close by, watching the interaction between their two children, but Dean hardly noticed them. He was well-absorbed in the way the baby’s fingers curled into little fists, like it was fighting monsters in its dreams. 

And it began to settle in, that this baby would be here for a long time. This Sam, who looked like nothing more than a giant blob of pink, who smelled like milk and powder, was going to grow. He was going to be Dean’s constant companion, his sidekick and mentor and best friend. They would live their lives together. This brother would never leave. 

This baby, this Sam, was the single most important thing to ever happen to Dean.

And from that moment on, he knew it.

“I’m Dean,” he whispered, as the baby in his arms slept. “I’m your brother.”

It was the single greatest discovery of Dean’s young life. He was a brother. He had a brother. Nothing on the planet was more important than this misshapen ball of flesh. Sam. A good name. A great one, even. A great name for a brand new brother. 

“Hi, Sammy,” he said, and with that name the whole world changed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I've been working on for a long time. I wanted to go about it delicately, since it's such an intense subject and it's based on a favorite song of mine ("The Greatest Discovery" by Elton John). I found out it's insanely difficult to sum up a four-year-old's emotions when meeting his newborn baby brother, but, hey, I did my best. So please let me know what you think! As always, thank you for reading and comments are much appreciated. Have a great day!


End file.
